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“I did it!” I shout, but my voice is lost to the thunderous sound of the realms splitting open. I throw my head back and laugh, overcome with joy.

The opening is at least eight feet tall and half as wide. It’s easy to see the other side—a clearing of grass and wildflowers that leads to a forest.

It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

The wind finally begins to slow, the sound dying down as well. My Mate’s face splits into a grin that grows impossibly wide before, without warning, he grabs my arm and yanks me through the tear between realms alongside him.

I stumble, catch myself right before I fall, and exhale in relief. There is no way I’m falling on my face the first time I step back on Earth’s soil. I am determined to re-enter this realm with dignity, grace, and a dash of swagger, just like I’ve practiced.

“Oh… shit.”

At my Mate’s shaky exhale, I turn and nearly gasp. His eyes are wide, face pale, and all his attention’s locked on something behind me.

For the second time in an hour, my brain short-circuits.

I’ve never seen him react like this. I’ve never even seen him worried, even in combat training. We each have political duties, but like every male, we train in combat as soon as we come of age.

And Oneric is the best Commander our army has.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, terrified of the answer but desperate to know.

Whatever this is has him so thrown he’s lost control of the block, which means I can feel his fear, thrumming through our Bond like the steady, ominous beat of a war drum.

And I feel the moment when pure, unadulterated terror washes over him, so thick it makes my stomach churn, and my neck break out in sweat.

An arm bands around me, and Oneric yanks me against his chest. I spin, determined to see what the hell's happening, when Oneric shouts a warning that reverberates through the clearing.

“Watch out!”

I reach for my sword before the words have left his mouth, forgetting in the moment that I left it behind, choosing—stupidly—to come unarmed as a show of respect.

But even if I had brought it—or my dagger—they’d be useless. Because no steel, in this realm or any other, can pierce a dragon’s scales.

The dragons are dead.

The words repeat in my head, despite the very real—very young—dragon right in front of me.

The dragons are dead.

Except… they aren’t. Not anymore.

The dragons are dead. I was there the day it happened. Thousands of us silently mourned as each creature—all sixty-three of them—died, one by one.

An entire species. Gone.

Except for one. Except for the silver dragon, who, right now, is turning toward me; one bright, brilliant sapphire eye locks with mine, and in it, I see my death.

Faced with this very real threat, my mind and instincts snap into focus. Only centuries of training and my Highborn bloodline prevent Oneric and me from burning to a crisp.

Rolling waves of fire barrel up the creature’s throat and fill its cavernous mouth. Its jaw drops, exposing two double rows of dagger-sharp fangs moments before flames pour out of its mouth and shoot across the clearing.

I don’t think. I react.

I react just like anyone else would if they found themselves facing down a mythical creature that shouldn’t exist.

First, I let out a high-pitched, terrified shriek that could shatter glass while praying I don’t wet my pants but accepting I probably will.

This lasts half a second before my training kicks in, overriding my terror and saving my life. My shriek morphs into a shout of determination as I throw my hands out in front of me and, using every bit of my power, conjure a shield made of air.